


The Waiting Unknown

by IAmANonnieMouse, mizunoir



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Inception Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Memory Issues, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25627465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizunoir/pseuds/mizunoir
Summary: Once, he thinks, he knew a man. A beautiful, brilliant man, so sharp he could cut a beam of light in two. They travelled the world together, first Calcutta, then Hong Kong, then Zimbabwe, Alaska, Paris. They gave different names at each hotel, danced wildly on a beach in a lightning storm, and littered their rooms with the cash they earned from work.Once, he thinks, he knew a man. But now, he doesn’t even know himself.Now with aChinese Translationbyliseyalice!
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 59
Collections: Inception Big Bang 2020





	The Waiting Unknown

**Author's Note:**

> This was made as part of the 2020 Inception Big Bang challenge! I had the absolute pleasure of working with the insanely talented [mizunoir](https://mizunoir.tumblr.com/) on this! Her art is embedded in this fic, but a direct link to it is in the author's note at the end. Make sure you go shower her with love!!!

*

It’s quiet in the house right now, a roaring kind of silence that echoes in his veins. It’s suffocating, this quiet. He hates it.

His thoughts are deafening, a screaming symphony of memories and half-remembered dreams. They clash and clang, some aligning, others conflicting. He can see himself dancing on a deserted beach under an impossibly bright sky, he can smell a man’s cologne and feel his lips against his skin. 

He’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what. He’s missing someone, but he can’t remember who.

It’s quiet right now, and his thoughts are deafening.

*

He hears it through the silence, through the roar and crash and clang of his mind. The click of tumblers sliding home, the creak of a door opening.

Someone else is here.

He turns just in time to see a man walk through the front door, tired and worn. Familiar, in a distant, confusing way. The man’s carrying some bags in his hand, and as their gazes meet, he smiles, eyes warm.

“You’re awake,” the man says. “How are you feeling?”

He doesn’t know. “Who are you?” he asks instead. _Who am I?_

The man pauses, then ducks into the kitchen to put down his bags. He returns with two glasses of ice water.

They both drink for a moment, the man settling in a chair. 

He’s sitting on a couch, himself. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here, or how he got here. He feels like he used to know, and the answer’s waiting on the tip of his tongue. But no answers come.

“Do I know you?” he asks the man.

“Not yet.” The man sips his water. “But we’re going to be the best of friends.”

A shiver works down his spine, and he frowns slightly. “How do you know? We’re barely more than strangers right now.”

“You ever get one of those feelings?” the man asks. “Deep down inside, that you can’t explain?”

He nods. It’s how he recognizes the sound of a key in a lock, how he knows, instinctively, that this man is not a threat. 

“Well,” the man says, lips quirking subtly, “that’s how I know.”

There’s a pause, now. Quiet, natural. He looks at this man and thinks that they’ve met before.

Another one of those feelings.

Abruptly, the man stands, tugging at the ends of his shirt in a distantly familiar gesture. “I brought some food for dinner. Would you like some?”

He nods and watches the man leave the room. 

Dinner is sushi for him, and a plate of something else for the man.

“You don’t want any?” he asks, gesturing at his spider rolls.

The man shakes his head. “Was never really my thing. It’s all yours.”

His eyes are drooping by the time the man starts clearing the table. The man walks him to his bedroom and tucks him in, pulling up the covers gently.

It doesn’t feel strange to him, which is strange in and of itself. But he doesn’t have time to ponder it; he’s already half-asleep by the time the man turns out the light.

*

Once, he thinks, he knew a man. A beautiful, brilliant man, so sharp he could cut a beam of light in two. They travelled the world together, first Calcutta, then Hong Kong, then Zimbabwe, Alaska, Paris. They gave different names at each hotel, danced wildly on a beach in a lightning storm, and littered their rooms with the cash they earned from work.

Once, he thinks, he knew a man. But now, he doesn’t even know himself.

*

When he wakes up, there is a man in the kitchen. “Good morning,” the man says, handing him a cup of coffee. It’s perfectly made.

It takes him a long moment, maybe two, to remember last night – the glass of water, the sushi. 

_We’re going to be the best of friends. ___

__He watches the man, traces his eyes over the lines of the man’s shoulders, back, waist._ _

__It feels familiar. Everything about this man is familiar. Like a dance he used to know, or a song he once heard._ _

__Already, that roaring silence has filled the space between them._ _

__“What’s your name?” he asks._ _

__The man hesitates, shoulders tight, then lightly says, “What’s in a name?”_ _

___Everything,_ he wants to say. _Our names define us.__ _

__But that can’t be true. Because here he sits, in a room with a man he can’t identify, in a house he can’t remember owning. He doesn’t know his own name, can’t sign his own signature, but he’s alive, he’s breathing. He exists._ _

__The man puts a plate of food on the table and tries to smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Everything okay?”_ _

__“I wish I could remember,” he admits._ _

__“Remember what?” the man asks._ _

__“Anything,” he says. “Everything.”_ _

__The man watches him for a long moment, eyes dark and probing. “Okay,” he says slowly. “I think I can help with that.”_ _

____

*

It’s a battered metal briefcase. Based on the sound it makes when the man puts it on the coffee table, it’s a _heavy_ battered briefcase.

The only question is what’s inside.

“Comfortable?” the man asks.

He nods from his sprawl across the couch. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but that’s nothing new, really. 

The man opens the case. Inside is a mess of machinery, wires, and buttons – and a timer that looks like it belongs on a bomb. 

He doesn’t know why he even knows what a bomb should look like.

The man pulls out a cannula and slides the needle under his skin quickly, easily. Gently.

“Just relax,” the man says, voice soft, eyes warm. “Close your eyes.”

 _Warm Eyes,_ he thinks. _That’s what I’ll call you._

He closes his eyes and feels the cool trickle of something being injected into his veins.

*

“A vacation?” Eames echoes blankly. “Are you feeling alright? Have you been replaced by a pod person? It’s okay, you can tell me.”

The sky is still dark, so Eames doesn’t think it can truly be called _day_ yet. He’s just been shaken awake by the man he used to consider his better half, but now he’s not so sure. He eyes Arthur warily. Maybe this is Arthur’s new approach to saying, _I’ve been made, now we need to flee the country. Again._

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Look, I already packed your bags, you just need to get in the car.” 

“I could be concerned by this violation of my privacy,” Eames comments.

“Sure you could,” Arthur agrees. “And I could actually take you seriously if you hadn’t been living with me for the last...how many years has it been?”

Eames gets out of bed. “No need to get catty, darling.”

Arthur smiles blandly. They get in the car.

It’s been five years now, Eames realizes as he stares out the passenger window. Five years of cohabitation, preceded by a good ten years of courtship that started at _adolescent, potentially-flirtatious avoidance methods_ and gradually worked its way up to _I’m leaving some of my clothes in your closet, with a toothbrush. Promise not to freak out?_

Eames doesn’t think about the past very often, but on the rare occasions he does, it always blows his mind.

“We’ve been together longer than my own parents have,” Eames blurts.

Arthur shoots him a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. “Great,” he says. “I’m glad I can beat your sucktastic parents at yet another thing in life.”

Eames can’t help his smile. “Sucktastic isn’t a word.”

“Sure it is,” Arthur says. “Spellcheck doesn’t even fight me on it anymore.”

“There’s a difference between bludgeoning something into submission and actually being right.”

“Eh.” Arthur waggles a hand. “Potato, potahto.”

Eames laughs. “So, any clues about this kidnapping?”

“Vacation,” Arthur argues. 

“I doubt you know the meaning of the word,” Eames says, “but sure, darling, let’s go with that. Where will this glorious vacation take place?”

Arthur sighs and says, “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

The drive is long, and Eames is tired. When his eyes start to droop, he doesn’t fight it, and the next thing he knows, Arthur’s gently shaking him awake with a sappy, fond smile, saying, “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. We’re here.”

They’re on the coast. Eames can smell the fresh, salty air, can hear the roar of waves crashing against the sand. Arthur leads him down a small trail that ends at a quaint cottage at the top of a hill, overlooking the sea.

Eames lets himself gawk for a full minute, then turns to Arthur and helplessly says, “Darling.”

“You said you’ve always loved the ocean,” Arthur says, flushing slightly. “I thought it would be a nice treat.”

Eames reaches out and pulls him close because he can’t possibly fathom doing anything else.

“Thank you,” he whispers in Arthur’s ear. Arthur presses a soft kiss to the side of his throat. 

When they finally separate, Arthur brandishes a key and unlocks the door. They leave their bags in the bedroom and explore the cottage. That evening, they cook dinner together, and then, when the dishes are soaking in the sink, Arthur extends a hand and says, “Walk with me?”

“Darling,” Eames responds, “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

There’s another small trail that leads them down to the shoreline. They walk on the beach, shoes in hand, guided by the full moon shining on the water. It’s peaceful, and beautiful, and everything Eames could ever want. And then Arthur pauses and lets go of Eames’ hand and gets down on one knee and suddenly it’s _more_ than Eames has ever let himself imagine.

It starts raining on their walk back, a torrential downpour that leaves them soaked to the bone in seconds. 

“Fuck,” Arthur shouts, laughing hysterically. “What the fuck.”’

Eames laughs and kisses him and pulls him close, and then somehow, suddenly they’re dancing on the beach, a tidy little box step, laughing wildly as lightning streaks across the sky and makes the ring on Eames’ finger shine.

“I love you,” Eames says, words almost eaten by the rain. “God, darling, how I love you.”

They dance until the sand gets too wet for them to keep their footing and their hair keeps dripping water in their eyes. Eames takes Arthur’s hand and leads him back to the cottage. He ignores the dirty dishes and their unpacked bags. He strips them both, leaving their wet clothes in a pile on the floor.

And then he pulls Arthur back into his arms, and doesn’t let go for the rest of the night.

*

He opens his eyes to familiar walls, a familiar floor. Home, he thinks, but only because he knows nothing else. Maybe there is another, truer home waiting for him, somewhere.

Maybe someone is waiting for him there. Somewhere. 

It’s endless, this cycle of questions without answers.

The man is already up, carefully packing away the machinery into his battered, heavy briefcase. _Warm Eyes._

“You okay?” Warm Eyes asks, back turned.

“Yes,” he answers honestly. Something’s different about him. He feels lighter, freer. Already the memories of what they did with that silver machine are fading to abstract splashes of color and sound, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever they did, he liked it. That’s enough for him.

He moves his hand and a glimmer of light catches his eyes. There’s a ring on his finger. It’s silly, really, because he knew the ring was there yesterday, but suddenly it’s hitting him: there’s a _wedding band_ on his finger.

He rubs it with his thumb and tries to think. He can smell flowers, can hear another voice saying _’til death do us part._ And maybe, possibly the sound of gunfire?

“Would you like to do this again tomorrow?” Warm Eyes asks, cutting into his thoughts.

The scents and sounds vanish, faster than he can reach for them. He wants to get them back, wants to find more.

He looks at Warm Eyes and twists the ring on his finger and says, “Yes.”

*

Warm Eyes returns the next morning, then the next. He comes every day like clockwork and gently imposes a routine on the day.

And it helps, somehow. Every day, it takes a little less time for him to remember who Warm Eyes is, why he’s here, what he’s doing. After a while, he doesn’t even have to wonder.

It helps, too, that Warm Eyes’ presence keeps that roaring silence at bay. 

There is still a muddled mess where his past should be. He can recall fragments – an army uniform, a car speeding on a rainy road, the weight of a gun in his hands – but he knows there should be more. 

As always, his days are filled with questions and no answers. He wonders when the cycle will end.

*

In hindsight, the marmite probably wasn’t the _best_ idea. But Eames can’t help his laughter over the utter betrayal on Arthur’s face when he bites into his sandwich.

“You bastard,” Arthur says admiringly. “I picked these up from the deli myself.”

Eames nods smugly. “Yes, you did, darling.”

Arthur stares at him contemplatively before handing over the sandwich. “Gonna tell me how you did it?”

“Maybe,” Eames hums. “If you’re worthy.”

“And how would I earn that title?” Arthur asks, lips curling.

“You think I’m just going to tell you?” Eames grins. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and mutters, “Why do I even like you?” But Eames knows it’s all for show.

And he gets to see the grin on Arthur’s face when he reveals, with a dramatic flourish, the pristine, marmite-free sandwich Arthur had been expecting. He swapped Arthur’s sandwich for the marmite one when Arthur went to wash his hands before they started eating. Child’s play, really. 

But Arthur doesn’t need to know that.

They eat in comfortable quiet for the next twenty minutes, until their extractor, Laura, comes back. “Alright, lovebirds,” she calls, clapping her hands. “Time to get back to work.”

Arthur smiles and stands, stretching just slowly enough that Eames can trace the lines of his body with his eyes. 

“I mean it, lovebirds,” Laura says. “Let’s get cracking.”

Eames snags Arthur’s wrist as he walks past and kisses it. 

“What was that for?” Arthur murmurs, eyes warm. 

“Just because,” Eames says, stroking his thumb over Arthur’s pulse before releasing him.

Arthur’s smile softens, and he bends down to kiss Eames’ cheek. “You sap,” he mutters, then heads back to his desk.

Laura asks them to cut back on their _lovesick gooiness_ four times that afternoon, but Eames can’t really bring himself to care. He’s having a wonderful day, working a relatively easy job with a great extractor and his favorite point man. And, even better, after this job is finished, they’re going to move Eames’ things into Arthur’s apartment in Manhattan.

Eames leans back in his chair and reads his notes on the young woman he’s forging and wishes every job could be like this one.

*

One morning, after they’ve finished breakfast, Warm Eyes says, “I have something to show you. If you want.”

He looks at Warm Eyes curiously, notes the slightly tense jaw, the subtle pinched brow, and instinctively labels it as _nervousness._

One of those feelings, maybe.

He follows Warm Eyes down a hall, into one of the rooms he’s never bothered exploring. Inside, is a studio. Canvases, some blank, some filled, are piled against walls splattered with paint. The far wall is a beautiful expanse of windows, positioned perfectly to let the light in. Through them, all he can see is blue.

He inhales, lets the scent of oils and turpentine settle in his bones. It’s familiar, this smell, in the same way Warm Eyes is. Something from a past life, maybe, or even this life that he’s forgotten.

“I thought you might want something to do,” Warm Eyes says, stumbling over his own words. 

Some buried instinct drives him to snag Warm Eyes’ wrist and press a kiss to it. He hesitates, afterwards, uncertain.

“Why’d you do that?” Warm Eyes asks, voice rough.

“Not sure,” he admits. “Just because?”

Warm Eyes blinks quickly, then pulls away. “So,” he fumbles, “you like it, then?”

“I do,” he says.

He starts painting that afternoon. They’re impressionistic at best, sloppy at worst. But they’re _his._

He paints skylines, landscapes, seascapes. He paints cities he’s never seen, buildings that twist around themselves, stairwells that continue forever. He paints a mansion atop a majestic hill, a gallery filled with priceless works of art. A cottage overlooking an ocean shore, the sea shimmering under a vibrant sky. 

He paints faces, too, distinctive but blurry, as if viewed through fogged glass. A man with narrow eyes and a striking woman on his arm, a younger woman, eyes wide, eager for knowledge. A man with a riot of curls and cats, sitting in a room stained amber in the sunlight. 

And a man in crisp suits, tired and worn, made of sharp lines and faded edges. Warm Eyes.

Always, he paints Warm Eyes. 

One afternoon, he picks up a pen instead, grabs a fistful of papers off the kitchen counter. And he writes names, so many names they fall off the edge of the page. Signatures of all styles, loopy and spiky and sloppy and clean. There’s one that feels more right than the others, one that calls to him.

He gives that one a page of its own.

When he’s done, and there are no more names pressing at the edge of his mind, he stops and wonders which one is his.

*

When Warm Eyes walks in later that afternoon, he hands him the paper, the one with a single name written over and over and over, and asks, “Who is this?”

Warm Eyes pauses, face flickering through too many emotions to follow. “Where did you get that?”

“I wrote it,” he says. “I don’t know what it means.”

There’s a pause. Warm Eyes swallows. “It’s nothing,” he says. His voice is sandpaper rough. “Do you want to do some more remembering today?”

“I want to remember everything,” he says. 

It’s hardly the first time he’s said it, but this time the words seem to land like blows against Warm Eye’s skin. “Yes,” he manages to grit out. “Everything.”

When he turns away to prepare the machine, his shoulders are trembling.

*

The job is a joke, to put it lightly. Some idiot managed to hire an even dumber extractor who decided he needed both Arthur _and_ Eames on a job that barely requires an architect, let alone a forger and over-qualified point man.

“Easy money,” Arthur suggests when they’re trying to brainstorm reasons why this isn’t a total waste of time. 

“Paid vacation,” Eames responds. “Perfect, I love it.”

Arthur presses his chuckle into Eames’ skin. “Paid vacation it is.”

The woman who hired them is certain that her husband is cheating on her. And instead of hiring a private investigator like most people, she decided to hire dream criminals.

Eames doesn’t even want to think about how she heard of them in the first place. Either it’ll be something terrifying – maybe her cousin’s got ties with a mob – or it’ll be something frighteningly banal. But maybe Eames is being an elitist. It’s totally possible that these coiffured women talk about dreamshare over their weekly Sunday tea. 

However this woman found out about them, the story is, by default, much more entertaining than her two-timing husband who, they discover, is _absolutely_ cheating on his wife, but who cannot be bothered to remember the _name_ of his lover-on-the-side.

“It’s rather convenient, I suppose,” Eames muses while he and Arthur clean up the warehouse. “He never has to worry about calling out the wrong name in bed.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “We should’ve asked him what his wife’s name is. I don’t think he would’ve known the answer.”

Eames laughs so hard he drops the cord he’s been carefully wrapping. He picks it up and starts over again. “How does someone forget a name, anyway? I remember every person I’ve ever forged.”

“Okay, Mr. I-Collect-Identities-Like-Crows-Collect-Shiny-Things,” Arthur says, smiling fondly. He pulls the cord out of Eames’ hands and finishes wrapping it quickly. “Normal people have shitty memories.” 

“You don’t,” Eames points out.

“Exactly,” Arthur says. “I’m, like, the least normal person ever.”

“You said it, not me,” Eames says with a grin, slinging an arm across his shoulders.

“Asshole,” Arthur mutters, as he briefly leans into Eames’ side. He hefts one of the PASIVs and lets Eames grab the spare. “Ready?”

They leave the warehouse and go straight to the airport. Eames slouches in an uncomfortable excuse for a plastic chair while they wait to board, and lets his head fall onto Arthur’s shoulder.

“Seriously, though,” he mutters, “how could he forget that woman’s name? Names are important.”

Arthur hums and runs gentle fingers through his hair. “I promise I’ll never forget yours.”

Eames smiles and kisses the nearest patch of skin he can find. “That’s all a forger can ask for, I suppose. To be remembered.”

Arthur’s fingers pause for a moment. “You can ask for more than that, Eames,” he says, voice quietly serious. “You deserve so much more.”

“Of course I do,” Eames lies. “That’s how I got you in my life.”

Arthur kisses the top of his head and lets the conversation die its natural death. But later, when they’re in the sky, pressed together shoulder to thigh in the narrow airplane seats, he nuzzles Eames’ temple and whispers, “You deserve the world.”

Eames, cowardly liar that he is, pretends to be asleep. But he clutches the words close as he falls into a restless doze.

*

They continue this dance, he and Warm Eyes. Breakfast together, then quiet mornings alone in his studio. Afternoons are for remembering, and he’s starting to retain things from their time spent with that silver machine. He can almost remember conversations with familiar voices, can almost visualize the people speaking.

They still conflict, though, these fragments of memories. Once, he saw himself sitting in a lavish lounge, dressed in an outlandishly expensive suit. Another time, he remembered mopping the floors of a run-down clinic, body thin and fatigued. He’s remembered himself as a doctor, a teacher, an actor, a therapist. He’s seen himself on a battlefield, in a gym, in an alley, fighting faceless enemies. 

It doesn’t make sense that he would’ve done so many different things. It doesn’t seem possible.

So many questions. But he’s starting to hunt for answers.

*

His dreams are built from broken pieces, a maze of mismatched faces and garbled voices and impossible colors. He runs without direction, sees without comprehension.

He is looking for something. Or is someone looking for him?

He runs until his muscles tire, then runs some more.

A voice calls for him, whispering on the wind. It would sing him home, if only he could hear.

*

“I’m not getting cold feet,” Eames tells himself for the umpteenth time. “I’m _not._ It’s just a lot, you know? I don’t want to mess this up.”

Eames fusses with his bow tie one more time then forces himself to leave it alone. He somehow managed to pin the boutonniere without stabbing himself in the process, and he’s calling that a victory.

In twenty minutes, he’s going to walk out this door and walk down the aisle and swear in front of the whole world to love Arthur forever and always. And, okay, maybe it isn’t the _whole_ world, maybe it’s just Arthur’s family and Dom and Ariadne and Yusuf and Saito, but the point still stands. 

Eames has a history of being really, really talented at messing things up. He doesn’t want to demonstrate that talent today. 

“I’m not freaking out,” Eames says again, hands drifting up to his bow tie.

“You sure about that?” Arthur asks.

Eames turns and smiles. Arthur’s lounging in the doorway, looking like a GQ model. Sometimes it takes Eames’ breath away, how beautiful his fiancé is. _Soon-to-be husband._

“I love you,” he says. He can’t imagine saying anything else. 

“That’s good,” Arthur says. “Otherwise the next couple minutes might’ve been awkward.”

Eames laughs helplessly and easily folds himself into Arthur’s arms. They stand there for a quiet minute. Eames breathes in the familiar scent of Arthur’s cologne and lets it center him.

“You’re not going to mess this up,” Arthur murmurs. “You know how I know that?”

Eames shakes his head.

“Because you love me,” Arthur says simply, “We’re here, and we’re in love, and there’s nothing you could possibly do wrong, Eames. It’s our day. There’s no such thing as messing up today.”

He brushes a gentle kiss across Eames’ lips.

“But you do have your gun on you, right?” he asks.

Eames buries his laughter in Arthur’s shoulder. “Yes, darling,” he wheezes. “Yes, I do.”

“Okay,” Arthur says, chuckling. “Just to be safe.”

Arthur is right, per usual, and Eames doesn’t mess up a thing. He makes it down the aisle, arm linked with Arthur’s. He says his vows, he slides on the ring. He kisses his husband in front of their friends and family.

And then a gunman crashes the wedding.

Turns out Arthur was right about bringing their weapons, too.

*

Warm Eyes finds him in his studio, painting a portrait of a man from the neck down. He’s in a white suit. A wedding suit.

“It’s beautiful,” Warm Eyes says, voice low.

“I think I knew him,” he says.

Warm Eyes rests a hand on his back. It centers him. Grounds him.

“Did you need something?” he asks after a pause. Warm Eyes doesn’t often visit his studio.

Warm Eyes shrugs. “It’s raining.”

He looks up and realizes the drumming noise he’s been hearing is the sound of rain hitting the windows. 

“I love the rain.” 

He doesn’t know how he knows that.

“I do, too,” Warm Eyes says. “I knew a man once who said rainstorms were like rebirths.”

“A fresh start,” he says quietly.

“Exactly.”

They stand and watch the rain come down. Lightning streaks across the sky, followed by the rumbling thunder. Warm Eyes doesn’t remove the hand resting on his back.

He likes it.

“Want to go outside?” Warm Eyes asks.

He can’t stop the grin from spreading across his face. “Yes!”

They go outside in their bare feet and are instantly, immediately drenched. He laughs hysterically, face tilted up towards the sky, and thinks about rebirths and fresh starts and past lives.

A hand on his arm gently pulls him from his reverie. Warm Eyes is watching him, smiling fondly. He extends a hand. “Would you like to dance?”

He smiles back, and then they’re dancing on the front porch, a simple box step, perfectly in sync. Memories flash behind his eyes of a night like this one, and a sandy beach, but they vanish before he can follow them.

He leans a little closer and rests his head on Warm Eyes’ shoulder. Warm Eyes hums, the sound vibrating against his chest, and he lets his eyes slip shut as they dance together in the rain.

*

His dreams begin to change, the broken pieces slowly gluing themselves back together. He runs without direction, but now, someone runs alongside him.

He’s looking for something. But he’s starting to think he’s already found it. Or maybe, he’s had it all along.

A voice calls for him, whispering on the wind. The figure never wavers from his side. 

_Take me home,_ he asks.

He wakes up before his companion can answer.

*

“What would you do,” Arthur asks, voice quietly amused, “if I told you we were dreaming right now?”

They’re lying in bed, comfortably tangled together. The world outside their window is a dark blur of colors and sounds. 

Eames grins up at him and wraps a hand around the back of his neck. “I would say, don’t wake me up. Why? Is there something you need to tell me?”

Arthur chuckles and lets Eames pull him down slowly, gently, until their lips brush once. Twice. “I was just thinking how nice this is, that’s all.”

Eames hums and kisses him again, deeper this time. “Yes, because I can only be this amazing when you’re dreaming.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and leans back enough that they can look each other in the eye. “If I were dying,” he says, abruptly serious, “or in a hospital in a coma or something, I would want you to put me under.”

Eames frowns and pulls Arthur close again, until they’re pressed together from head to toe. “What brought this on, darling?”

“Would you want me to do the same to you?” Arthur asks instead of answering. “If something happened, and you weren’t the same?”

Eames sighs and wraps his arms around Arthur’s lean waist, nuzzling his temple. “Yes, of course, darling,” he murmurs. “I would want us to be together. I’m always better when I’m with you.”

They fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, as the blurry world outside their window continues on. Eames thinks there’s something strange about that, the lack of detail despite the late hour, but then Arthur nuzzles closer and Eames forgets about everything else.

*

Things change after their dance in the rain. Warm Eyes leans a little closer, smiles a little longer. He starts to come by the studio and sit with a book, and in the evenings, they watch movies on the couch.

One afternoon, Warm Eyes pulls him away from the studio and takes him outside through the back door. Another thing he knew was there but never bothered to wonder about. The front of the house leads to a small lawn and a smaller dirt road. 

But the back of the house leads to the ocean. He turns back and realizes that’s what his studio view has been. The sky and the sea. Miles of endless blue.

The house is on a hill, overlooking the waves. They follow a small trail down to the shore. Warm Eyes lounges on the sand while he stands in the ocean, feels the water swirl around his ankles. 

It’s quiet, just the two of them and the birds overhead and the steady roar of the water. And this, he realizes, with the sudden, striking clarity of hindsight, is the roaring that’s filled every silent moment. The ocean.

He looks out at the waves and thinks again about water and rebirth. 

Back on the beach, Warm Eyes is watching him. _Who are you?_ he thinks desperately. _Why have I forgotten you?_

Ever since Warm Eyes walked into the house, his list of questions has only grown. And still, all the answers are just out of reach.

They’re so close, he can taste it. Like the figure that runs alongside him in his dreams, like the fragments of sound that sometimes tease his memory. 

He’s starting to think that everything he needs to know is already in his mind. If only he knew how to access it.

A splash startles him, and he turns away from the horizon. Warm Eyes is standing at his side, pants rolled up, shoes in hand. “You okay?”

He nods slowly. “I’m trying to remember.”

“Remember what?” Warm Eyes asks.

“Anything,” he says. “Anything at all.”

Warm Eyes steps closer and wraps an arm around his shoulders. He folds into the embrace easily and breathes in Warm Eyes’ cologne. It settles something inside him. Centers him.

The ocean moves around them, rushing in then out again. He closes his eyes and lets Warm Eyes hold him for a little bit longer.

*

Eames has always loved the rain. It’s a rebirth, a chance for a fresh start. The concept has always appealed to him, for obvious reasons. He firmly believes that when he dies, when his body fails and his mind goes blank, he’ll just start over again, shiny and new.

Side effect of being a forger, perhaps. There’s always someone else he hasn’t become yet.

Today’s rain is a steady shower, not enough for him to get out the umbrella, but heavy enough that he looks rather bedraggled by the time he arrives at the warehouse.

“Look at what the cat dragged in,” Leona comments drily. “Nice of you to finally join us.” She’s a relatively new extractor – but then, anyone who wasn’t around when dreamshare was invented seems new to Eames. “You know,” she continues, “if you put shampoo in your hair, you could’ve multi-tasked on your way over.”

“Ah, but that would mess up the whole ‘peasant chic’ look he’s got going on,” Davies chimes in. He’s the stereotypical academic, complete with glasses and tweed, but Eames worked with him two months ago in Uruguay, and he’s the best architect Eames has ever seen. 

Eames grins, running a hand through his sopping wet hair. “It’s actually ‘bargain bin chic,’ I’ll have you know.”

“‘Bargain’ and ‘chic’ should never be in the same sentence,” a voice says from behind him.

Eames turns to face the newcomer and thinks, somewhat nonsensically, _Ah. This must be the cat._

The man’s a gorgeous study of sharp edges and soft fabric. He flicks his eyes over Eames’ body, then turns to face Leona, jumping straight into shop talk. Eames could be offended by how quickly this man dismissed him as a threat, but instead he’s charmed. It isn’t that Eames is harmless; it’s just that this man views himself as more deadly. 

Eames has always found competence sexy. 

And besides, it’s given him the perfect opportunity to trace his eyes over the lines of this man’s shoulders, back, waist.

He’s beautiful.

“Arthur,” Leona says, “this is Eames.”

Arthur glances over his shoulder at him. “The forger,” he comments blandly. “I hope that today’s attire is part of your...audition?”

Eames lets a grin grow on his face. “Leona already hired me, mate. But I could be asking for your credentials, too.”

Arthur snorts at that. “You don’t have the clearance to check my credentials.”

“Likewise, petal,” Eames responds sweetly. He takes in the subtle flush that travels across Arthur’s cheeks, cataloging details with more care than he gives some of his forges. 

Arthur sighs and visibly shifts himself back into Work Mode. “We have a lot of stuff to get through, if you’ll stop being a distraction, Mr. Eames.”

“Sorry, petal, I can’t help these ruggedly good looks. Blame my mum.”

Arthur glares at him and stalks away. Eames follows.

“Listen, petal,” he says, perching on the edge of Arthur’s desk.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Casanova,” Arthur snarls back. 

“You and I are going to be the _best_ of friends,” Eames continues, unperturbed. 

“How would you know?” Arthur pointedly flips open the nearest file and pretends to read it. “We’re barely more than strangers right now.”

 _And I’d love for it to stay that way_ remains unsaid, but Eames gets the message anyway.

“You ever get one of those feelings?” Eames asks. “Deep down inside, that you can’t explain?”

Arthur flicks his eyes up to Eames.

“Well,” Eames says with a smirk, “that’s how I know.”

Arthur stares at him for a moment longer, then turns back to his file. “Isn’t there someone else you can harass, Mr. Eames? I have work to do. Go pick a few pockets or something.”

“What a lovely idea, Arthur, thank you,” Eames says, and he snatches Arthur’s wallet before he goes across the warehouse to flirt with Davies over his models.

But he can’t stop his eyes from drifting across the room and lingering on Arthur’s profile. And he can’t stop himself from thinking, _Yes. I know._

*

Warm Eyes seems different today. Tense, in a way he hasn’t been for ages. Nervous. But, just like always, he unpacks his machine, pulls out the cannulas. Pushes the button.

The world blurs around the edges, then fades.

He opens his eyes to an empty hotel room. He’s standing in the center of it, dressed in brightly colored shirt and slacks. To his right, an opened, half-filled suitcase sits on the bed. To his left is a mirror.

He steps toward it slowly. It’s a large, tri-fold mirror. It feels like it’s waiting for him.

He reaches out and adjusts the panels until the reflections are caught in each other, splintering off into infinity. He watches himself, repeating forever, and then suddenly his reflections are replaced by new faces. Familiar faces. He’s painted them all, blurred and indistinct. The teacher, the actor, the therapist. The fighter.

Then he catches a glimpse of Warm Eyes, turning away, showing off the strong lines of his shoulders, back, waist, and then suddenly –

_–I will lead them on a merry chase–_

_–It’s our day. There’s no such thing as messing up today–_

_–You deserve so much more. You deserve the world–_

_–Call it soulmates, or fate, or destiny–_

– he remembers.

And then he wakes up.

*

He opens his eyes. Same familiar walls, same familiar floor. He spins the wedding band on his finger, thinks about special days and soft kisses and uninvited gunmen.

Warm Eyes sits at his side and smiles, tired and worn. “You with me?” he asks gently. Nervously.

He reaches out and takes Warm Eyes’ hand. 

He says, “We are going to be the best of friends.”

He says, “I will always come back to you.”

He says, “Arthur.”

*

“Do you believe in soulmates?” Arthur asks. The wind is howling outside, and they’re curled around each other like they can block out the rest world. Arthur’s toying with Eames’ wedding band, smiling softly.

“I’m not sure,” Eames admits. He presses a kiss to the top of Arthur’s head just because. “But I believe in you.”

Arthur snorts quietly. “Way to be a cliché, Eames.”

Eames laughs and pulls him closer. “I mean it. I fully believe that, no matter where I am, no matter who I become, I will always find you. In this life or the next. Call it soulmates, or fate, or destiny, I don’t care. But I will always come back to you. I believe that.”

Arthur looks at him, eyes warm and tender. “I believe that, too,” he whispers. “Nothing can ever keep us apart.”

Eames twines their fingers together and thinks, _I love you._

He thinks, _You really are my best friend._

He thinks, _I’ll always return to you, Arthur._

It feels like a promise.

And as he falls asleep with Arthur in his arms, he swears to himself that he will keep it.

*

His dream that night is solid, built from the shards of his past. There are cracks where they fit together imperfectly, gaps where some memories are still messing, but it's his and it's whole.

He's walking across the sand, the incoming tide swirling around his feet. 

A voice calls for him, whispering on the wind.

He looks up.

There is a figure in the distance, quickly coming closer. Running. Sharp lines and worn edges and warm eyes.

"Arthur," he calls.

Arthur doesn't stop until they're close enough to be wrapped in each other's arms.

"Arthur," he says again, quieter. "I've been looking for you."

Arthur pulls back and smiles, familiar and fond. "I know, Eames," he says. "Let's go home." 

He takes Eames' hand, and they walk together across the sand as the tide comes rolling in.

*

  
  
_Art by Mizunoir_  


**Author's Note:**

> [HERE](https://mizunoir.tumblr.com/post/625153001070428160/hes-waiting-for-something-but-he-doesnt-know#notes) is the direct link to Mizunoir's art. Go gush over it for a couple hours like I'm going to <3 See how many references/details you can find!


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